


Mickey's 5 Alibis + the 1 He Didn't Need

by NotHereNJ (efficaceous)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, sad hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28503327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/NotHereNJ
Summary: Why were they always leaving each other, why couldn’t they ever just stay together in one place, and be safe?
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 19
Kudos: 161





	1. Every time I feel that I /(Bad luck) /End up on the wrong side

Ian was sure he was hallucinating, reliving one of his nightmares. 

He’d been a haze, deeply immersed in the ongoing gameplay on his phone, jabbing his husband with his elbow to try and throw him off. It was friendly competition- the winner got a no-strings attached sex act of his choice. So far Mickey’d won three times, getting a blowjob, a prostate massage, and now as the crowning touch, had decided his third choice was to ruin an orgasm for Ian. 

At first, the words hadn’t made sense- how could an orgasm be ruined? Then Mickey showed him the little video on his phone, from some porn site or other, and Ian’s eyes grew wide in horror.

“How’s that fun for me?”

“It ain’t. But it’s highly entertaining for me. I won, so drop ‘em.” Mickey stared expectantly, and Ian forced himself to stand, slowly pulling his sweats down, when they both heard a banging on the front door downstairs.

“Ignore it, they’ll go away,” Mickey suggested, scooting to the edge of the bed for a better view of Ian’s cock.

Actually, it was a little weird to be able to hear  _ anything  _ outside. Ever since the herd of wild Milkovich’s had taken up residence next door, there had been a round-the-clock orchestra of shouting, banging, gun shots, breaking glass, and occasional screaming. Mickey assured him this was all normal, and not a subtle plan to destroy the Gallagher family through sleep deprivation. 

The banging at the front door returned.

“Chicago PD! Open up!”

Ian couldn’t help it- he looked at Mickey, who held up his hands. “I didn’t do anything!”

He pulled up his sweats quickly, more than a little relieved to skip the ruined bullshit thing. “Nothing, really? What about the dumpster scam?”

“Ok, yeah, but no one cares about that shit right now. Not enough to come to the house during COVID. They’re probably lookin’ for Frank. Liam’s downstairs, right? He can push ‘em off.”

Ian shook his head. “Liam’s at his girlfriend’s place.”

“Carl home?” Mickey asked hopefully.

“Nope.”

The banging came again, and the two shared a look before heading downstairs to face whatever was coming their way, together, phones forgotten on the unmade bed.

Ian was about to open the door when he remembered, and grabbed one of the communal masks hanging from the doorknob, tossing a random one to Mickey as well, but his husband shook his head, crouching down on the wall under the window, holding his finger up to his lips in a shh-ing motion. With a shrug, Ian opened the door to the two uniformed officers, a man and a woman.

“Good afternoon, can I help you?”

“Afternoon, sir. We’re looking for Mikhailo Milkovich; his PO says he lives here.”

“Milkovich’s all live next door,” Ian said, trying to sound confident. “There’s no one home but me and my husband.” Fingers reached out and pinched his ankle, but he ignored the warning.

Above their matching dark blue masks, the two officers exchanged a look.

“Your husband’s name?”

_ Shit.  _ Ian had dug this hole with his big mouth. Shoulda said he was alone, and this would all be a moot point. But it’s not like Mickey’d done anything big lately to get busted for; cops were trying to keep the jail’s population down because of the virus.

“Mickey Gallagher.”

The cops exchanged another, weightier glance. 

“Ok, we need to see him.”

Ian could hear scuffling to his left, where he  _ hoped  _ Mickey was making a quick getaway. This couldn’t be happening, his mind insisted. It was fundamentally impossible- Mickey couldn’t go back to prison, not now when things were finally on track for them.

It was the noise of the scuffling that distracted him, gave the policeman and woman the edge to barrel their way in through the door, pushing him aside, guns not drawn, but loose on their hips, ready. Mickey had only gotten halfway through the living room, and they got him by the couch, grabbing Ian’s husband and yanking him up by his arms as he squawked in dismay, writhing and trying to jerk free.

“Ey, I don’t know what you think-”

“Mr. Milko- uh, Gallagher. You are not under arrest yet, but you are a person of interest and you need to come down to the station immediately. If you continue to resist we will handcuff you and we can charge you with interference. Do you understand?”

Frozen, Ian stood, back to the wall. He was reliving his worst fears, Mickey being taken away from him, yet again. 

_ Why were they always leaving each other, why couldn’t they ever just stay together in one place, and be safe? _

Mickey had stopped trying to get free and was focused on his husband. “Ian- Ian, I didn’t do anything, I swear. This is a mistake, don’t be mad at me, ok? I’ll clear this up and it’ll be fine- don’t be mad or worry about me, please?”

The pleading in Mickey’s voice was what broke Ian, finally. Tears leaked from the corner of his eyes and he turned away, unable to watch the officers frog-march Mickey out of the house and down the steps. He could feel the piercing weight of Mickey’s eyes on him the whole time, begging him not to be mad, not to leave, not to abandon what they had together. 

“Swear to god, I didn’t do anything! Don’t be mad- it’ll be fine.”

Hadn’t he warned Mickey a million times? 

_ ‘I’m not gonna be some Statesville widow if you get locked up again.’ _

_ ‘I didn’t get married to visit my husband in the joint every weekend.’ _

Now his words cruelly echoed in his mind, paralyzing him. The black and white car pulled away, and then there was silence. 

A car drove by. Distantly, people were talking. 

Ian went inside, locked the front door. 

Walked up the stairs, laid on the bed,  _ their  _ bed. 

Pulled the blanket up, closed his eyes.

Waited to wake up. 


	2. Yesterday was tough/I was having some bad times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The look on Ian’s face, the disappointment, and worse than that, the sheer fatigue. As if Mickey was this exhausting person to deal with, as if he’d been expecting something like this all along.

In the holding cell, Mickey paced. He kept running his hand through his hair, pulling against the fine threads, trying to ground himself. The look on Ian’s face, the disappointment, and worse than that, the sheer  _ fatigue _ . As if Mickey was this exhausting person to deal with, as if he’d been expecting something like this all along.

When all the time Mickey’d been trying his damndest to stay on the straight and narrow. Fuck, he’d gone for that stupid job interview. He’d found a low-key way to get cash, since his husband kept crawling up his ass about money. 

But it wasn’t enough. Not the money, Mickey’s efforts. Would it ever be enough? Would Mickey ever be enough for Ian? 

Their stupid porch chat about monagmy had shaken him, too. Would Ian be content with one lame ex-con husband for the rest of his life? It was part of the reason Mickey was throwing every sexual trick in the book at him: role-play, toys, flip-fucking, anything he found on PornHub was fair game. He had to keep Ian's attentions on him- it was a near pathological need, because he knew, deep in his heart, that he was failing his husband on so many grounds. As soon as Gallagher realized, saw all Mickey’s stunts for what they were- fear-based window dressing covering his soft, sensitive heart- he’d leave Mickey. Again.

Tired of pacing, but still thrumming with nervous energy he couldn’t display (‘cause he knew they were always watching, in here) he leaned one arm across the bars, and rested his head on his forearm, hiding his eyes. The pressure against his eyeballs caused brief, brilliant sparks to flare in the darkness of his mind’s eyes, and it reminded him of another time, another bright afternoon.

\---

Mickey couldn’t believe it had worked. The shit little car, the big earrings, and the dress, even the smudgy eye-liner and lip gloss he’d snagged out Mandy’s old room- they had all woven this mask over his features, made him someone else. When the car was stopped and stupid-ass sniffer dogs were circling his car, he’d glanced in the rear-view, hoping for a last glimpse of Gallagher, but caught his own reflection and was shocked. He looked like Laura, like his mother, in the one picture he’d seen at Aunt Randy’s place. She had his eyes, or he had hers, really. Tear-filled and all.

He took a long, snot-filled inhale through his nose, and swallowed it all. Gross as fuck, but if the border guards saw a teary-eyed woman, they might look twice, ask stupid questions. And while he could disguise his body and face, his voice was a whole other matter. No way could his voice pass for a lady, even when he felt like a total bitch, crying over some guy.

They waved him through and his first thought wasn’t relief or elation, but heavy sadness. Like some invisible line on a map was now the only thing keeping him from Gallagher, even though he knew full well that going back wouldn’t magically solve anything. He’d be in jail, alone. Ian wouldn’t visit, and he’d be losing his mind with loneliness, trying to cover it up with jackass bullshit all the time. No thanks.

Mickey drove a little ways further on Route 2 in the obnoxiously bright sunlight, passing the fast food chains and shopping centers, looking around casually. It wasn’t that different from Chicago: a few nice cars, plenty of beaters. The air smelled a little different, but anything was better than the funk of prison. There were kids everywhere, but the loose dogs were new. He half-turned in his seat, about to make a quip, and then remembered. The passenger seat was empty. He put his hand on the seat cushion, hoping to feel some residual warmth, something. It was cold, like no one had ever sat there and grinned at him, like he was still 16 and stupid.

His throat felt like it was narrowing and constricting; he quickly swung into an empty parking lot next to an abandoned car dealership. The asphalt was cracked with weeds growing everywhere and a few old, weather-beaten signs lying on the ground. The tears were coming like a wave and there was nothing he could do, he couldn’t breath with how much it hurt, one hand pressed still to the empty seat cushion, the other clenched in a tight fist. 

The pain, it was like Gallagher had kept his heart on the other side of the crossing, and every mile he drove further away, the thinner and more tenuously sharp the connection was, cutting him up inside like shards of glass. Everything in his body screamed for him to turn around and go back, that even a lifetime in prison would be fine if he could see Ian just one more time. Touch him, hear his voice. Tell him- The tears crested under his collarbone and then broke. 

Mickey sobbed in his car, in that shitty wig, crying his fucking eyes out, heart broken to be alone, again. Those few hours together had given him a taste that would need to sustain him for, what, 30 more years? 40, if he was really unlucky? Would it feel like  _ this  _ every day- like there was a giant blender shredding the cells of his body apart? Love was the worst thing in the world, if it felt like this, he decided. But no one could know how much of a bitch he was, not here. Here, he could be someone else, someone hard. 

30 or 40 years was a long sentence to live out in this huge, open prison. Was it really better than six years in a smaller one? Either way, he wouldn’t see Gallagher again. He’d used up all his chances, pulled every string, called in every favor, and burned every bridge. 

He rubbed his nose, smearing the snot, more than clearing it away. Done was done. Time to be hard for the rest of this sentence.

\---

“Milkovich, come on down,” the guard called in a sing-song tone. 

Mickey looked up, and then scrubbed at the suspicious wetness on his cheeks. “The fuck you want from me? You got me in a cage again, what else could you possibly need?”

“It’s just questioning, Milkovich.” The guy seemed annoyed, like Mickey was just another piece of annoying busy-work in his day. His uniform was perfectly pressed and his hair was a clean buzzcut, a few days fresh. This guy was a rule-follower, through and through. 

“Questioning about what?” Sure, he was doin’ a  _ few _ sketchy things, but not enough for all this song-and-dance bullshit. He resolutely avoided thinking about the fuckin’ disappointment on Ian’s face, before he started bawling again; he’d never live that shit down.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out. I have a lot of questions about you Milkovich’s.” The man had opened the holding cell and waved Mickey out into the hallway.

_ Oh, fuck.  _ But Mickey couldn’t back down, couldn’t look like a weak-ass pussy in front of this pig.

He tried for cocky. “Oh, yeah, like why our dicks’re so big?”

Suddenly, he was on the ground, knee throbbing with pain where the guy had fuckin’  _ kicked _ his leg out from under him. “The fuck?”

“Listen, Milkovich, I don’t wanna hear any more of your filthy mouth. My associate is gonna ask you some questions, and you’re gonna answer. Politely.”

“You know I live with a fuckin’ cop? He’s my brother-in-law, he ain’t gonna like this-” He was halfway to riding, knee still twanging out complaints. A heavy, booted foot was suddenly resting on his hand where he’d pressed it to the floor to help himself up. The boot wasn’t pressing, just sitting across his tattooed knuckles, a silent but very real threat.

“If I had my way,” the cop hissed, “you wouldn’t be locked away for life. We’d exterminate your whole lousy family. You’re a plague on the Southside, like rats. The whole city’d be better off if you all disappeared.”

“Sorry to fucking disappoint.” Mickey yanked his hand out from under the boot and stood. “But I ain’t a Milkovich no more. Been a Gallagher for nearly a year.” He held up his ringed hand to show it off.

“Same fuckin’ difference.”

Mickey just laughed. This guy knew nothing, if he thought Gallaghers and Milkovichs were the same. Both were sneaky, devious, smart. But one family had a cancer at the center, and the other had a (dysfunctional) heart. And that made all the difference. Disappointing ~~his~~ \- Terry, that came with painful consequences, like death and dismemberment. Disappointing his husband- that was much, much worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This does have a happy ending, in case you're worried.


	3. I was ready to go out /And throw caution to the wall /Fresh pack of razors, too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s the kinda guy who didn’t defuse situations, he watered every insult and vengeance with his own piss an’ bitterness. No surprise that shit bloomed with a blade.

Detective Steve Newton watched through the one-way glass as Milkoivch sat in the interview room. The guy was tilting the chair on its back legs to a scary degree, and just when Newton was sure he’d fall, he leaned forward, coming back to earth and safety. 

He wasn’t looking forward to interviewing Milkovich, not really. Not after hearing he was also a Gallagher. Milkovichs were the worst, but Gallaghers were… a lot. The kid who was a new beat cop was green as grass but so fuckin’ enthusiatic it made Steve’s teeth hurt. Steve remembered Frank Gallagher, and Monica, had spent far too much time with them both individually and together, The insouciant disregard for social norms seemed to be passed down to not just the kids but also the relations, friends, neighbors. It was like an infection spreading through the whole block.

Detective Markovich came into the room then, peering through the backlit glass at Milkovich. 

“Is that Mickey Milkovich?” His voice was overly interested, and Steve took note.

“Sure is. He’s here about that Wallace Street thing.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. Wild. Hey, he’s married to that Gallagher kid, Ian, right?”

“Is he? Yeah the guys who picked him up said something about a husband. Some redhead.”

“Wait, did you pick him up cause of that?”

“Cause he’s gay? Fuck, Tony, of course not. You know me; I’m not like that. I went drinking with you and Alex last summer, remember?”

“No, I know.”

“It’s because he’s a goddamn Milkovich.”

“But he’s not, he’s a Gallagher.”

“Isn’t that basically the same?”

“Maybe? Two sides of the same dysfunctional coin, I guess. I know it’s not you, but some guys around here, they still think being gay is an admission of guilt. Just- I dunno, keep that in mind. Can’t be easy being the gay Milkovich. And now living next door from the old man, with the husband… I can’t imagine if my mom didn’t support me and Alex.”

“Do you wanna do this interview then? I’d be happy to pass on it.”

“No way. But thanks.”

\---

“So, Mr. Milkovich, good afternoon.” Newton let the heavy folder hit the tabletop, trying to strike a note of authority. He unbuttoned his suit coat and sat neatly, crossing one leg over the other. 

Mickey wasn’t impressed by the suit or the outfit. He’d seen this trick before, the full folder implying that the detective had oh-so-much evidence to show off, when really, Mickey didn’t think they had anything on him. At least nothing substantive. 

“I’m Detective Newton. I have some questions to ask you.”

“Yeah, ok, Fig-man. What’s this about, anyway?”

The man sighed and Mickey could tell the mocking nickname wasn’t the first he’d heard. “What do you think it’s about, Mickey, can I call you Mickey?”

With an eye-roll, he answered, “Whatever. An’ I don’t have fuckin’ clue what this is about, or I’d tell you everything I knew and walk home.”

The detective flipped open the manila folder and pulled out a picture. “Item number one, a bucket of human shit.”

“Mmm, looks extra crispy.” Mickey smacked his lips, getting an entertaining grimace from the detective.

“Well, it  _ was  _ on fire when it showed up. No witnesses as to who or how it got there.”

Mickey smirked, but didn’t say anything. The detective pulled out another photo and flipped it so Mickey could see.

“Item two. This is hard to see, so you might need to look closely. That’s a trip wire across the front door of a house, attached to an improvised incendiary device. An IED.”

“Fancy, still don’t know what this has to do with me.”

“Oh, you’ll see.” Next, the detective pulled out two typed letters, each inside its own plastic covering. “Threatening letters. Now do you see why we have questions for you?”

“My name ain’t Terry, so no, I do not. Someone threatening that asshole has nothin’ to do with me. I wish ‘em luck, though.”

“That’s the thing, Mickey. Everyone we asked, including Terry, who his enemies are? Number one on the list is you.”

“Bullshit! He’s the one who shot up my honeymoon, anyway. I been keeping my nose clean and my head down, just like my PO wants.”

Newton stared hard, and Mickey gulped. He took another look at the photos. “Well, the trip line and the IED, that’s Iggy, right there. Kid’s useless but he likes to blow shit up and he’s good at it.”

“Go on.”

“Bucket of shit, that sounds exactly like my sister. But no one’s seen or heard from her in years.”

“Is this... “ Newton looked at a list in his file. “Molly, or Amanda?”

“Mandy. Molly’s like… twelve.”

“And why would Iggy, or Mandy, for that matter, have a grudge against your father?”

“Mandy had it way worse, trust me.”

“Did she? Worse than you? I’ve seen the hospital reports, Mickey, I know what he did to you. The broken arms, the skull fractures. And I’m sure there were twice as many times you didn’t even bother going to the hospital, or went someplace I didn’t track down. What coulda been worse than that?”

Mickey considered holding back, but fuck it. If this took Terry down and got him out of here, all the better. “He fucked her, ok? My father raped my sister.”

There was a long pause.

“Jesus. Do you have any proof?”

“No, she got it vacuumed out when she was 16, and then she split. You guys never cared then, so don’t pretend to now.”

“Now is different. There’s been a threat. More than a threat, really. Action taken, Against Terry. He’s a piece of trash but we still have to investigate these types of things. Rumor has it you have the most reason to want the guy dead.”

“No fucking shit, I have like 12,000 reasons to want him dead. Doesn’t mean I made a move. I like living on the outside with my husband.”

“What if Terry made a move on you first? Like shooting up your honeymoon?”

“Then I’d come and report it to you guys like a good little boy.”

“Did you? I don’t have any record of…”

Mickey’s frown silenced Newton. “No, of fuckin’ course not. I’d deal with that shit and make sure you all never found out.”

“Then I have to ask, Mickey, where were you on Tuesday September 21 of this year?”

“Home, probably. On the couch.”

“All day?”

“All fuckin’ day. I was still on my honeymoon.”

“Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?”

“Probably fuckin’ not. It was a Tuesday. Shit’s busy, people have jobs, kids have school.”

“That’s gonna be a problem for you, Mickey.”

“What kinda moves we talkin’ about? I know the fucker ain’t dead, I’m not that lucky.”

“Not dead, no. But not likely to be alive to see his next birthday, either.” Newton pulled out a report from his stupid folder and laid it on the table for Mickey to read.

Broken tibia, broken collar bone, depressed skull fracture, orbital skull fracture, two toes removed, complete hearing loss on one side… The list went on and on. 

Mickey knew on some level he should feel  _ something _ . Even just basic human empathy. But he felt nothing. Not sadness, not joy, just a desire to go home, to know how Ian was. 

“So if it wasn’t you, Mickey, who could want to hurt your old man this bad?”

Mickey surprised himself by laughing. “Seriously? If it wasn’t Mandy, I still got a whole list of reasons someone could want Terry Milkovich to be pushing up daisies. Lessee, it could be a cartel job, they woulda left him alive on purpose. Coulda just been some junkie he sold bad shit to, one too many times. Fuck, it coulda been Frank Gallagher, for that matter!”

Newton eyed him suspiciously for the first time in the interview. “DId Frank say something, to make you think that?”

“Frank never  _ stops  _ saying things. He’s threatened to murder every member of his family this week, including the babies, just cause he woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Monica’s side, even though the cunt’s been dead for years.”

“Back to Terry, though… anyone else we should look at?”

They really were looking for  _ Mickey  _ to help them, what a fucked up world this was. “Maybe he gay bashed the wrong guy this time. Terry had a lot of enemies. He’s the kinda guy who didn’t defuse situations, he watered every insult and vengeance with his own piss an’ bitterness. No surprise that shit bloomed with a blade. It coulda been any of my brothers or cousins too, just lookin’ to take over. Might be easier to list who Terry didn’t fuck over, and work backwards.”

“Mickey, you’ve given me a lot. I need to go talk to some people. You’re still not under arrest, but I do need you to stay put, ok? You understand you’re still a major suspect if we can’t corroborate your whereabouts for the date of the incident?”

He nodded, seeing no other options. Fat chance he’d find any alibi to cover the whole day, true or not. 


	4. I never wanna lose that hope/Cause nobody will get too close/Never wanna lose that hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You what? Stop right there, there’s no way Mickey did anything so you need to- No I will not calm down, that’s my brother-in-law you’re accusing! An alibi? You’re damn right he has one! Give me 20 minutes.

Ian stayed in bed all day. At one point, he felt the distant urge to pee, but it went away eventually. The house was so quiet, all day, only the light moving across the wall of the bedroom showing the hours that drained past him. He didn’t go to work. He didn’t call and let them know or anything. He didn’t answer the buzz of text messages that came in, only silenced the phone and turned to face away from it, so he wouldn’t see the screen light up.

  
  


Mickey was gone, again.

Ian curled his hand into a fist, just to feel the bite of the ring, cool against his palm. Proof, hard proof that Mickey was his. That he was Mickey’s. That they belonged to each other, belonged together, no matter what. He wondered what he could do to go to jail with Mickey this time. If they’d just let him in. 

The sun had dropped below the window sill, changing the light in the room from warm honey to a colder shade of orange. He could hear the back door open, downstairs. Feet walking around, more than one person. Murmurs. Lip and Tami.

“Mickey said he would help me-”

“I don’t know, go ask Ian, his coat’s still here.”

“Wasn’t he-”

Ian pulled the duvet over his head. He wasn’t ready for questions.

The door to the bedroom swung open and he could feel himself being looked at. Studied and inspected like a disease. He hated when they looked at him like that; it hadn’t happened in a long time but he still remembered how powerless it made him feel.

Another person charged up the stairs and stopped to look. 

“Why the fuck is Ian in bed?” Debbie, always blunt.

Lip answered. “Could it be his, uh, you know, bipolar?”

“No, no way. This isn’t how it works anymore. He was fine yesterday- he isn’t fine one day and then a puddle the next. Something had to happen. Where’s Mickey- Ian does he know you’re in bed at 3pm?”

Tears began to leak from the corners of his eyes, and Ian could hear the faint buzz of his phone vibrating on the nightstand. But it couldn’t be the one person he wanted to hear from, so he didn’t care.

Lip’s obnoxious ringtone went off next, he must have silenced it, because it only went through one round of chirping crickets.

“Who was that?”

“Unknown number. Local. They can leave a mess-”

Debbie’s phone interrupted Lip’s explanation, and Ian sighed heavily, wishing they’d all just go away, leave him to his misery.

“Hello?”

“Yes, it is.”

“You  _ what?  _ Stop right there, there’s no way Mickey did anything so you need to- No I will  _ not  _ calm down, that’s my brother-in-law you’re accusing! An alibi? You’re damn right he has one! Give me 20 minutes.”

Ian peeked out of the blankets, intrigued despite himself. Tami and Lip were staring at Debbie in equal concern and confusion.

“That was some asshat detective. Says Mickey’s under suspicion of a crime and until we can verify his alibi, he can’t come home.”

Three pairs of eyes descended on Ian, and he blinked slowly under their weight, unable to formulate a response yet.

Debbie faced Lip and Tami. “We need to help him.”

“It’s not worth it,” Ian choked out. The words felt like they were caught in his throat. “He’s a Milkovich, they’ll put him away for sneezing.”

“No offence, but that’s bullshit, Ian. He’s your fucking husband, he’s a Gallagher now. They said all he needs is an alibi, ok? Get your ass up and let’s deal with this.”

“Can you- can you help me? With the alibi, I mean. I’ll-” he flipped the blanket off his legs and swung them so he was sitting up, “-I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Of course, man. Fuckin’ don’t have to ask.” Lip waved a hand at his blanket-draped body. “Clean yourself up and meet us downstairs, ok? We’ll make a plan and then go get him.”

“We’ll bring him home, Ian,” Tami promised, squeezing his shoulder. “Promise.”

“Anyway, they can’t arrest him, I need him to babysit Frannie tonight,” Debbie added, as if that had any bearing on the situation.

The three shuffled out, leaving Ian to sit up, feeling the familiar ache that had settled in his muscles from staying in one spot for too long. 

\---

Downstairs was a circus when he finally descended the stairs. The kitchen was full of Gallaghers, plus Tami, Vee, Kevin, and Sandy, all talking over each at Liam, who was patiently drawing on a sheet of paper.

When they saw Ian, everyone stopped talking.

“Hey, guys. What’s goin on?”

Liam spoke first. “The day Mickey needs an alibi for is Tuesday the 21st of September. It was only a few weeks ago, so I’m trying to build a schedule of Mickey’s day based on what everyone remembers.”

“Oh, ok.” Ian went to the fridge and found the carton of orange juice, taking a long satisfying drink from the container, eliciting groans from his family. That let the conversations erupt again, and he paid attention with half of his mind while the other half thought back to September.  _ What had he been doing then? _

Finally after much haggling and debate, there was a rough timeline. Frannie had been first. 

“Uncle Mickey made me banana pancakes! Mommy put them on Instagram!” Debbie had checked her socials and lo and behold, there they were, banana pancakes with the cutsie hashtags #bananasforbanana #uncleshaveiteasy #momlife #redheadles #tuesdayswithfrannie

Liam was next. “Mickey signed my homework log that day.” He produced the notebook with its daily signatures that he’d done each day’s homework on his own, with no help. Mickey’s scrawling signature filled quite a few of the lines, actually.

After that, apparently Mickey had taken a bubble bath. “I came in and needed him to watch Fred for a minute so I could grab a nap. That was when he was teething, remember Tams? We’d been up all night and I couldn’t make it another hour without some shut eye. He watched Freddie from 9 to 11 or so.”

Tami agreed. “That’s right, you brought me coffee. Do you still have the receipt?”

Dubiously, Lip dug through his pockets, coming up empty handed. He thought for a minute, then pulled out his phone. After tapping a few buttons, he held up a picture to the assembled watchers. It was Freddie in Ian’s old ROTC hat, with a ( _ probably _ ) empty handgun in his lap. The time stamp was 10:22am 9/21/2020.

“I remembered, cause Tami sent me a text when I sent her there picture.” He looked at his girlfriend a little accusingly.

“What? I just asked if I should be worried about Mickey’s love of underage gun play! It’s a real concern for some of us.” 

“That’s just how he grew up, it’s who he is. It’s why I-” Ian broke up, closing his eyes and trying hard to keep it together. After a moment, he resumed. “So you picked Freddie up at 11. What did Mickey do next?” Ian looked around quizzically. He’d never really thought Mickey did  _ anything  _ all day except jerk off and nap.

Sheepishly, Sandy raised her hand. “I dragged him outta the tub, around 11:30. Had a gig unloading tables at the convention center and needed the extra hands.”

“Any proof he was there?” Liam was staring at Sandy, eyebrows drawn down.

“Um… Oh! We got free tee shirts for the event, ChiCon2020, go look in his stuff and you’ll see it. Bright yellow with red collar. Ugly as shit, but free stuff, ya know?”

“That’s good.” Liam tapped his pencil on the paper. “What time did you get back?”

“Maybe 4,” Sandy guessed.

“He was with me after that,” a new voice added. They all stared at Carl, who shrugged. “We talk shop. Cop shit, what to look for, how not to get jumped.”

“But  _ where _ , Carl? Did anyone see you?” Ian implored, as if this was the last string of hope to keep his husband out of jail instead of just one more airtight piece of evidence against such an outcome. 

“Only about twenty cops. We were at the cop bar by the station. He met me there at 5, after my shift.”

Ian smacked himself in the forehead. “Jesus, I’m an idiot. That was the night he came home drunk at 7pm and I asked him if he was out with a guy and he  _ giggled _ . I was so fuckin’ pissed off at him, I tried to sleep on the couch. Then Frank came home and I went back to bed around 1am.”

“There you go, Ian,” Veronica spoke up kindly. “He’s alibi-ed tighter than… well, tight enough, right?”

“Probably. Can we- we gotta go down there right now and tell them!” Ian was already pulling on his coat and in short order all the Gallaghers and associates were in vehicles, headed to the police station. 


	5. Love will pick me up/Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was me, mother-fucker! Surprise, I took down Terry Milkovich!

By the end of Mickey’s statement, Newton was pretty sure he wasn’t the doer. Guy had too much invested in his new life, too many good things, to fuck it all up on some stupid revenge plot, especially one right next door to his own house. He just needed some evidence, some account of his whereabouts besides “the couch all day.”

When he’d pressed Milkovich for details, trying to elicit something concrete for the evening, at least, Mickey’d smirked.

“I was on the fuckin’ couch in my bathrobe all day, drinking beer and eatin’ toast. When my husband got home at 5, things changed.”

Newton perked up, glancing from his notes to the man across the table. “Changed how?”

“Cause then I was  _ under  _ my husband for a few hours.”

“Hours? Doing what?”

Mickey didn’t say anything, just crossed his arms and waited for the penny to drop.

“Hours, seriously?” Newton wasn’t impressed, exactly. Skeptical, absolutely. “With,” He checked his notes. “Three kids under 18 and five other adults in the home, you found time to bang your husband for a few hours?”

“Hey man, we do whatever it takes. Foundation of a solid relationship.”

“Oh, yeah? How’s that gonna work when you’re in Statesville and he’s home alone? You really think a little piece of metal,” Newton pointed to the wedding band on Mickey’s hand, trying to twist the knife, “is gonna keep him faithful? Cause from what I heard, your husband has quite the history with other guys. Older guys, guys with money.”

Mickey didn’t rise to the bait, but his breathing had picked up and the back of his neck was flushed. 

“It ain’t like that anymore. Ian ain’t like that. We’re married, and that means something.” Mickey was mostly muttering this last to himself as a buzzer in the hall rang, summoning Newton out.

“Be back soon, Milkovich. I got some things to take care of. Sit tight.”

Mickey gave him the finger under the guise of rubbing one eye, but Newton ignored it. He  _ had  _ just implied the guy’s husband would cheat on him if he went to prison again. It was a low blow, but Milkovich hadn’t blown up, had reacted appropriately. It was a good sign for him, though not for Newton, who really needed a new suspect.

\---

In the hallway, Newton could hear what sounded like a riot in progress at the front desk, so he hurried towards it, pushing through the swinging doors to what looked and sounded like pure chaos.

The room was filled with people of all ages, shouting, talking, one little girl crying pitifully. “Where’s Unca Mickey?”

A young Black boy was at the desk proper, asking pointed questions. “Did you question Mr. Milkovich because of his sexuality? Does your department harbor known homophobes? You do know it’s 2020, right?” The receptionist was sputtering, despite having decades with the squad, she’d never faced a herd of Gallaghers before, and it showed.

There was a tall blonde woman, crying baby on her hip. complaining loudly about gun safety and infants. A pair of women were dumping piles of crumpled receipts and more than a few cellphones onto a counter. There were other men in the crowd, including one face Newton recognized.

Then the name clicked.

“Billie!” He waved, trying to get Carl’s attention. Carl heard his nickname, smiled, and wove his way over, smiling serenely. 

“Hey man, what’s up?”

“You tell me!” Newton was practically shouting over the noise. “These all your relatives?”

Carl looked around casually. “Yeah, basically. Frank’s MIA, and he’s useless anyway, but everyone else is here. Heard you picked up Mickey on the Terry Milkovich thing? Bad call, man.”

A tall, red-headed man came up behind Carl, placing a hand on his shoulder. “This him?”

Carl turned, looking up. “Yeah, this is Detective Newton.”

The man, who could only be Ian Gallagher, looked Newton up and down, slowly and critically. Newton felt small under the scrutiny. “Sorry I’m late. I’m here to get my husband. You know, short guy with an ass that won’t quit? Mr. Gallagher?”

“I just- excuse me, we just need to verify his whereabouts for the date in question,” Newton stammered out. Those green eyes that were staring at him practically had weight, and he felt himself wanting to shrink under the heavy emotions he could see at play there. 

“I understand.” Ian moved his free hand to Newton’s shoulder, squeezing a little too tightly for comfort. The guy definitely worked out. Guess he had to, to fuck for hours on end. “But my family and I, see, we want Mickey home. So we brought everything you need for your little investigation. And you’re going to look at everything, nod your head, and release Mickey. ASAP. Got it?”

Ian was speaking slowly and clearly, and Newton realized these weren’t  _ suggestions _ ; these were demands. Part of him bridled at being handled this way, both physically and otherwise, but he got it. If his wife was picked up, if she’d just gotten out of prison and was being threatened with being sent back,  _ and  _ if he had overwhelming evidence she didn’t do it? He’d be pissed as hell too.

“Absolutely, Mr. Gallagher. Glad you’re all here, save me some legwork.”

\---

In the interview room, there was a convenient air duct that filtered every word from the front desk to Mickey’s ear. It didn’t hurt that the Gallaghers were loud as fuck.

He could hear all of them, even Lip, talkin’ at once, demanding to see him, explaining where he was that day, dropping bits of hard evidence. He could hear Debbie and Sandy arguing with the desk clerk about handling their phones.

“Well, take a screenshot and email it to yourself, grandma!”

“How can you ask for evidence and then not know how to take it? Fuck’s safe.”

Liam was citing law and statute against profiling by sexuality, while Carl was catching up with a few friends.

Tami had some poor sap buttonholed, asking about infants and weapons in the home. “Like, how early is too early for them to learn about where the safety is? If he can learn sign language, is there a sign for gun?”

Freddie was bawling his head off, cause it was nap time, and Frannie was asking pitifully for him in her saddest, littlest voice, the one that got her anything she wanted at home.  _ Oreos for dinner? Comin’ right up! _

He could hear Lip, talkin’ about a timeline they’d constructed, of Mickey’s day. 

_ Damn, he couldn’t even reconstruct yesterday, let alone a few weeks back.  _

The idea that the Gallaghers had put in that much time and effort, let alone come down to the station- Milkovich’s would never. Fuck, most of his birth family had active warrants preventing them from showing their faces at any police station. This was- this was different.

His ears picked up a new sound, his favorite, maybe. It was Ian’s voice. But it was a little rough; he’d been crying, Mickey could tell. He hated that Ian had cried over him- they’d both hurt each other so much for so long, that all he wanted to do now was try not fuck anything up. Just be together, no drama. But of fuckin’ course, Terry had to ruin that. Like always.

Ian was leaning on the detective who’d questioned him, leaning  _ hard _ . Mickey'd been on the other end of that tone of voice and that stare; Ian usually put one hand on him, not as a threat, but a show of power. He’d bet money that Newton was squirming right now, wanting to do anything to get Ian to stop the scrutiny. Fuck, maybe Ian should be the detective. 

Everyone was there, everyone in the house.

He could hear the swing of the building’s front door. “Hello, family! Didn’t expect to see you here! Did ya come to bail me out?” 

_ Fuckin’ Frank was even here.  _

It didn’t make any sense. Mickey wasn’t a Gallagher, not really. Even if he changed his name, did all the stupid paperwork and went down to City Hall, this kind of rallying together was totally unexpected to him. 

Sure, Ian would be sad if he got locked up again. Maybe divorce him, even. But the rest of ‘em? What did they give two shits if he was in the house or in the joint?

The hubbub out front had quieted a little, and Mickey didn’t catch what was happening.

Newton came back to the interview room, this time with a shallow, blue rubbermaid container in lieu of his shitty folder. He sat at the table, and began laying out items from the container across the table. Some Mickey recognized, some he didn’t.

“What time do you wake up in the morning, Mr. Milkovich?”

This non sequitur had Mickey a little confused, but he went with it. “Eh, late as I can. Usually the babies and kids gettin’ ready for school, so 7ish? If I don’t get up by then, I don’t get a chance to take a shit.”

Newton nodded, holding up a phone Mickey vaguely recognized. “At 7:27am, on the date in question, you’re clearly visible in the background of this Instagram post by one Ms. Deborah Gallagher. It’s of pancakes, and a hand is giving the camera the finger.”

“Yeah, the kid likes when I make ‘em best.” Mickey crossed his arms across his chest, puffing it out a little in pride.

“And we know for sure it’s your hand due to the distinctive finger tattoos.”

Mickey nodded.

Next, Newton pressed a wrinkled piece of paper flat on the table, smoothing it out a few times. “This is a homework log for one Liam Gallagher.”

Vaguely, Mickey remembered scribbling his signature on it for Liam a few times, but not when he’d done so.

“Your signature, on the date in question, is here.” Newton pointed and Mickey looked. 

_ Yeah, it looked like his, and the date was right. _

“Not conclusive in and of itself, but in conjunction, hard to dispute.”

Newton reached into the blue container and fished out another phone, waking up the screen. 

“This phone belongs to Ms. Tamietti. Her family are great friends of the police force. You can see another social media post of her son with a gun, sent from her - from Phillip Gallagher at 11am.”

“And?” Mickey wasn’t in this picture.

“And no one else in that house goes around putting weapons, loaded or otherwise, in the hands of children. That’s pure Milkovich.”

_ Truth _ .

“This next item should look familiar.”

It was a bright yellow tee shirt that Mickey had last seen on the floor of his and Ian’s room, after using it to wipe up-  _ fuck _ . Mickey felt his whole face heat.

“Your cousin, Sandy Milkovich, claims you helped with a job for a few hours in the afternoon, getting some cash and this tee shirt in exchange.”

Mickey nodded, seeing where this was going, but still not sure of the outcome.

“Judging by the, uh, deposits on the shirt, you’ve used it a few times in the intervening weeks.”

Still not concrete proof of his whereabouts, but another strong clue, at least. And parts of the shirt sure felt like concrete now, he smirked a little to himself.

“And, Mr. Milkovich, all of these are circumstantial, easy to dispute, but this next item,” Newton sighed, “is impossible.”

He held out a third phone, one Mickey didn’t recognize at all. 

“This belongs to Sergeant Rosemary Salazer. She took a series of photos of herself with Officer Gallagher that night at Dugan’s.”

Right, the chick that had been trying to get into Carl’s pants, Mickey remembered that now.

“Not only are you finally clearly visible during the time stamped photo, again giving the finger to the camera, we have statements from at least four officers affirming your presence there for the entire night.”

“Yeah, but you just said the rest of the day was, whatchamacallit, inconclusive.”

“I did. But even you, Mr. Milkovich, are not so stupid as to spend your night getting wasted with cops when you just beat your own father nearly to death that morning.”

Mickey wasn’t sure whether that was a compliment or an insult, so he kept quiet.

“And finally, there’s testimony from Frances Gallagher-”

“Frannie? Again?”

Newton looked at his notes. “No, Frank Gallagher. That he kicked your husband off the couch at 1 am when he came home. Mr. Gallagher is notorious, and his statement is useless.”

Mickey slumped back in his chair.

“However. The beating took place early in the day, so you didn’t really need the late evening hours accounted for. I just need to go finish up some paperwork and then we can move you.”

“Wait, what? Move me? I thought you just cleared me?”

“Move you out of here, Mr. Milkovich. Let you go home. With that circus of people milling about out front, waiting for your safe return. The sooner I finish this paperwork, the better.”

“Oh, yeah, ok.” Mickey didn’t know what to think as Newton ducked out, taking all his evidence with him. On the one hand, it made no fuckin’ sense. Why would everyone come through for him?

But on the other hand, it made perfect sense. He didn’t live in a holding cell of self-centered assholes anymore. He lived in a house, in a home. Sure, his life was centered around Ian, but the rest of the place was full of people who needed him.

People needing him wasn’t exactly new. But valuing him for it? Speaking up for him, fucking  _ showing  _ up for him? Like they actually cared about him? Fuckin’ wild, man. He had a whole team behind him, people who had his back. 

\---

Ian was sitting, hunched over in the hard plastic chair facing the doors to the back of the station. He couldn’t quite keep still, kept tapping his feet on the tile, rubbing his sweaty palms back and forth on his jeans-clad thighs. Lip was on one side of him, Liam on the other. 

They weren’t saying anything, just waiting. Tami had taken Freddie home, Debbie and Sandy had taken Franny, and Frank was being questioned on an unrelated matter. Carl was leaning over the front desk, clearly flirting with the receptionist, despite her being in her 60’s.

Mickey was coming. They were going to let him out, and then they would all go home, and it would all be fine. 

But parts of his brain wouldn’t  _ believe  _ that was true until he could see and touch Mickey again. 

Every time the doors swung open, his heart leapt to his throat, and Ian almost stood, and so far it hadn’t been Mickey. First it was a janitor, with his big garbage can on wheels. Then a detective coming off shift. The third time, it was Frank, waving merrily to the officers back there.

“Nice to see you, give my best to the wife!” Then he looked around, momentarily confused. “Hello, boys. Come to give your old man a lift home?”

“Fuck, no,” Lip practically spat the words at him. “We’re waiting for a family member, one who contributes, one we actually like.”

“Oh, you like me, huh?”

Mickey stood in the doorway, a  [ dopey grin ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/9886c69a7e0bdda4d13e6781bd6e6e03/ba1688f6ba0ad608-a5/s640x960/620d28966bc1d1cb55b96e3773d11119275b82c3.gifv) on his face.

Ian’s mouth was dry, and before he even noticed he was standing, he was right in front of Mickey, one hand holding the curve of his jaw. “Mick,” he whispered.

“Right here, Gallagher. Ain’t goin’ nowhere else.” Mickey stared up into his his eyes and it was- it was everything.

Lip cleared his throat. “Uh, why don’t we take this reunion home, guys? I heard a rumor there might be a half a sheet cake?”

“Mm, I do like cake,” Ian whispered teasingly, pitched for Mickey’s ears only. 

\---

As they pulled up, the contrast between the Milkovich and Gallagher houses was stark. The Milkovich yard was full of sullen men in dirty clothing, draped over every available surface. They were all weirdly quiet, just smoking and scuffing the dirt.

But at the Gallagher house, a celebration was in full swing. There were no decorations or shit, but there was loud-ass music, food, beer, half a cake. The kids were dancing in the living room, that little ass-wiggle dance every toddler can do, and the adults were standing around, watching, drinking, and eating. 

Kev and Vee had brought the girls, Frank had weaseled his way in, and even a very young Milkovich cousin was sitting at the kitchen table, casually drinking a beer, despite being no older than Liam.

The house was full, but more than that, it was  _ warm _ . Mickey and Ian couldn’t escape to celebrate the way they wanted to, or have their emotional reunion quite yet, but they managed to eat cake, drink beer, and tease each other. Neither wanted to be too far from the other, each keeping a hand touching the other man somehow. Ian kept his arm slung around Mickey’s neck, fingers brushing the tattoo he knew lived under the tee shirt, over his heart. Mickey kept a hand curled around Ian’s waist, squeezing occasionally, just to remind him. 

_ I’m here. Not goin’ anywhere.  _

As the party wound down, little kids falling asleep and being carted off to bed, Lip and Tami heading home, and the stray Milkovich kid fell into a drunken stupor under the table, it was Kev and Vee, Ian and Mickey, and Debbie and Sandy in the living room. Frannie lay, face down, across three laps on the couch, drooling a little as she slept. 

Carl and Liam had started the cleanup process in the kitchen, and the sound of water and clinking glasses from the sink filled the air when Vee flicked the TV off.

A quiet descended on the couples.

Debbie broke the silence. “Wonder who really put the hurt on Terry?”

Kev’s knee was bouncing.

Sandy looked at her, then shrugged. “Wasn’t me.”

“Man, fuck Terry. He has enemies up and down I-90. Coulda been anyone,” Mickey offered.

Vee coughed.

They all looked at her. “What? It’s a mystery!”

The group turned their eyes to Kevin. “Total mystery! Very ... mysterious!” He waggled his eyebrows, trying to look mysterious, but instead looking dumb as fuck.

After a moment’s pause, he continued, voice hushed but happy. “It was me, mother-fucker! Surprise, I took down Terry Milkovich!” And burst into laughter.

Nobody moved or spoke until Vee patted his shoulder. “After he started looking at the girls, there’s no way we would let that slide. Not sure if he wanted to assault them sexually or racially, but no point waiting to find out.”

“Jesus…” Ian whistled.

“Real sorry they picked you up, Mickey,” Kev apologized, sounding sincere. 

“Nah, man. I think-” Mickey paused and took another swallow, draining his beer. “-Think you probably did the right thing. A fuckin’ public service.”

“And that’s the last we’re ever gonna say about it, right guys?” Veronica’s voice was forcibly cheerful, and they all agreed quickly, nodding with wide eyes. 

Ian stood, holding out his hand to Mickey, who took it, and let himself be pulled to his feet.

“If you’ll all excuse me, I have some business to attend to with my husband. Upstairs.” He began to drag Mickey, not unwillingly, to up the stairs.

Mickey grinned happily, then stage whispered, “ _ He means my ass. _ ”

The rest of the adults groaned, and began to disperse, not interested in yet another production of Ian and Mickey’s greatest hits, role-play or otherwise. That’s just how it worked, when you were a family.

Sandy gave Debbie a significant glance. She sighed in defeat.

“Yeah, ok. We can go sleep at Lip’s tonight, let them have a real reunion.”

Carl and Liam stood in the doorway from the kitchen, identical hang-dog looks on their faces. 

“You’re gonna leave us here alone with that porn going on?”

Faint moans could already be heard echoing down from the upstairs hallway, along with a loud thud. One or the other of the two men had pushed the other into, hopefully not through, a wall.

“You two can crash at our place,” Vee offered in a firm tone that brooked no denial.

“Great!” Liam grabbed his backpack, but Carl demurred. “I’m good. Called Salazer, she said I can sleep on her couch.”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Sure, her  _ couch _ , ok. Be safe, use protection!”

\---

At 11pm, the day ended as it had begun, with Mickey and Ian tangled up in each other, snuffling a little in their dreams of each other. Each woke occasionally, distrubed by the total silence in the rest of the house, only to put a hand on the other man, reassure himself they were still there, together, and then fall back asleep, pressing a last kiss to whatever piece of warm flesh was closest.

  
  


[ Ra Ra Riot - Bad Times ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VS6B7mZwqdo)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my constant readers and cheerleaders.   
> Especially Peppaspice for all the plotting and planning!

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my next bad idea (Thanks Peppaspice for enabling me).  
> Posting schedule should be the same as all my other work- every Saturday morning EST.   
> Please do comment!


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